


The 9mm Parabellum

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Spoilers for 5:08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It was Etta’s.  It belonged to Olivia for three brief years but Etta carried it on her person - every second, every minute - for over a decade.  She infused it with a different kind of meaning.<em></em></em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 9mm Parabellum

**Author's Note:**

> _During World War Two, the Germans also produced a special load with a 150gr FMJ for a subsonic muzzle velocity. These loads were identified by an off-green lacquered steel case - or by an ‘X’ - located on the head stamp. ___
> 
> __
> 
> __– A history of the Luger and related ammunition._ _

 

 

 

THE 9MM PARABELLUM:

 

Walter gave her the bullet; he gave it to Olivia with a tumultuous smile, this mangled token; a macabre reminder of how _inhuman_ Olivia was.  Olivia hid it in a matchbox and tried not to think upon it; she couldn’t bring herself to throw away Walter’s keepsake; she couldn’t look at it without feeling nauseated.  The first time Olivia touched the 9mm she found herself looking for brain matter, blood; even though Walter had scoured the evidence away.  It sat by her dressing room drawer, unwanted, until the invasion.  Olivia left it there – and there the bullet sat, unremarked - until the day Etta found it; for her daughter it was never a token of inhumanity or alienation; it was the only possession she held of her parents.  She kept it close to her heart. 

Olivia had listened to Etta’s story: the tenacity of her search, the connection Etta found in the casing, and thought she preferred Etta’s perception over her own.  Olivia rolled the bullet between her fingertips, thoughtfully, then returned it to her child.  It was _Etta’s._   It belonged to Olivia for three brief years but Etta carried it on her person - every second, every minute - for over a decade.  She infused it with a different kind of meaning. 

Olivia, nostalgic, had offered a third perspective, too, her smile soft: “Your father used to call it the bullet that saved the world.”

It was made in 1939 at the Krupp ammunitions depo at Essen during the height of the Second World War.  The Parabellum 9mm was designed for the Luger, this particular bullet came to America via vessel in 1941, carried on the person of Robert Bischoff. 

His son would later inherit it. 

When Walter was institutionalized - his wife and child six years dead – William Bell found himself responsible for organizing the storage of Walter’s possessions.  A collection of books, both scientific and fantastical; a childhood photograph of Wally in long shorts that William chuckled over and carefully set aside, followed by wedding albums of purple tuxes and a resplendent bride, Walter’s first thesis was stashed away, as well as a design for a phaser they tried to recreate while high on amphetamines and _Star Trek,_ a collection of random coins, ticket stubs, until finally, William encountered Robert Bischoff’s Luger.  The weapon was a collector’s wet dream, perfectly stored inside a wooden box with ten remaining bullets. The temptation would prove too much for William, who kept it for himself. 

Parabellum – he would muse, tickled by the irony – and separate the consonants, draw them out, while blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling; the day he packed away Walter’s possessions was the last day William was high.  Parallels and Bells, he would giggle.

The Parabellum 9mm was located in the center- top row of bullets – a full metal jacket with an off-color casing, designated with an X on the head stamp - Walter Bishop would later chamber this same round into the Luger, and in the middle of the ocean twenty-one years in the future; shoot Olivia Dunham in the forehead. The bullet travels a curved trajectory - passing from Robert to Walter, Walter to William, Walter to Olivia (the first time it was fired), and Olivia to Etta - eventually it finds its way back to her, blood slick and warm. Olivia will dig it out of the wall after killing her captors, fingers closing tightly over its familiar design, her heart thumping viciously.  It no longer represents alienation, and the decades long fear of being _in_ human – of surviving car crashes and head-shots and multiple horrors that would kill ordinary people – of being incapable of _feeling,_  no longer preys on her.  Olivia’s seen inhumanity.  It’s not her.   _Take it_ , she urges silently, and closes Peter’s hand around the bullet; it's the last point of impact in its long journey; it passes from Etta to Peter where it lodges softly, where it comes home. 

Wordless, Peter doubles over.

Olivia’s half crouched over him, one hand rubbing a slow circle over his shoulder blades, his forehead pressed against her belly.  She’s wet, uncomfortable, in no hurry to move.  Below them, Windmark passes by the fountain at exactly twenty past seven in the evening.  Olivia lowers her mouth to Peter’s ear and reaffirms. “I love you.”  She was brought to this time frozen in amber – Olivia woke up half-buried, disconnected – but there are cracks all over her casing now, bleeding jagged.  Olivia doesn’t need parlor tricks to kill, she’s not Belly’s or Walter’s plaything, and if she _is_ a soldier then Olivia’s a soldier of her own design.  She reels Peter in carefully, and she thinks succinctly, Windmark made his first tactical error by revealing Etta’s last thoughts, by letting his daughter’s emotions roil to the forefront of Peter’s mind.  _She thought of us…her last thoughts…they were of **us**.  _ Peter’s voice had broken - a hitch in his quiet cadence - and Olivia found him there, crouched in the rain.  She’ll always find him. Peter will always come home for her. 

But Windmark made the task that much easier.  He won’t predict it.  It will never be a consideration for Windmark when 'running future lines' –the Observer won’t conceive why Peter might forfeit his only tactical advantage – it’s _illogical_ \- and every scenario Windmark runs from here on out will suffer because of it.

She gives to Peter Etta’s most prized possession - the Parabellum 9mm - and in exchange, she takes away the Observer’s tech.

 

***

 

They stumble into the lab two hours later, soaked to the skin and chilled through. 

No one sleeps naked, not even Walter, who once abhorred the constriction of clothing and didn’t give a damn if anyone saw. Paranoid, their boots are stashed beside their beds, stripped down to jeans and t-shirts as they slumber, ready to flee in an instant.   Olivia makes a sharp slicing motion with her hand when Walter raises his head from the pillow.  He frowns, braced on one elbow as he looks between them, then motions toward the office, what amounts to the most private room they have.  “You two can sleep there...if you want.”

“Thank you, Walter.”  Olivia knows the look.  Walter's struggling not to examine his son with every medical kit at hand, thoroughly and _invasively._   “We’ll see you in the morning,” she adds. 

No one sleeps naked but no one has an over abundance of clothing - and adamantly - Olivia refuses to sleep in wet denim. She peels her leather jacket off and hangs it on a chair.  Mindful of her own bruises, Olivia tugs her t-shirt off, toes her boots away, and unbuttons her jeans.  She stands casually in bra and knickers, her movements economical.  Olivia’s not thinking about sex – honestly - she can’t remember the last time the thought crossed her mind. she’s thinking ‘warm’, more pragmatically, it occurs to her these items of clothing will need to dry by morning or she’ll chafe.  Half drunk with exhaustion, Olivia wonders if she’ll have to run out the door in her underwear if the Observers find them.  “You too," she murmurs.  "Strip.”

“What happened?”  His left hand is still curled into a fist around Etta’s bullet, his voice hoarse.  Peter stares at the abrasions on her skin, the marks of her kidnapping.

“Someone wanted to collect my bounty.”  No parlor tricks, no anomalies, good old-fashioned fisticuffs with a dash of innovative thinking.  Olivia’s mouth curves, her voice as hoarse as his.  “I dealt with it.  Come here.” 

She finds the wedding ring under his t-shirt. It’s not the first time Olivia’s seen it, when Etta was alive Peter had a tendency to wear his ring in plain view, on the outside of his shirt, when she perished, it disappeared under his clothing.  His breathing slows as Olivia stares at it. She can feel the intensity of his gaze and knows, without asking, that it’s never left him.  She thinks, achingly, it’s another quirk he shared with Etta, and then Peter pulls her close.  "Thank you," he says.  They fall into bed exhausted, curled close for comfort.  For the first time in a fortnight, Peter sleeps.

 

***

 

“You’re an idiot,” Walter says scathingly the next day, and jabs a needle into Peter’s arm with a vindictive flair.

“Ow.  _Jesus_.”

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

“I don’t know, Walter, were you drilling for bone?”

Olivia falters when she walks out the door, one eyebrow raised toward Astrid.  “How long has Walter been at it?”

“About an hour and a half.” Astrid passes an apple pill to Olivia along with a bottle of water, and winces, touching her own cheek in commiseration.

Olivia swallows, mouth dry.  “It’s fine.”  Her jaw’s still tender.  Olivia went to sleep with a low-grade headache, she woke up clear-headed, the mattress empty beside her.

“I’ve been up since four am,” Astrid reveals, eyes watchful.  She says with unspoken kindness.  “You _both_ slept in.”

Across the room, Walter draws blood, brow furrowed.  Peter looks like he’s been poked, prodded, and boxed around the ears for the better part of two hours.  He turns at the sound of Olivia’s voice, bare from the waist up; he’s leaner, more pared down than Olivia remembers.  The wedding ring is missing.  In its place Etta’s bullet hangs, knotted onto the leather cord, resting low against his chest.  Startled, Olivia drops her gaze, focuses on Peter’s fingers until she finds the ring again. 

“Good,” she says, chest too tight, and doesn’t register Astrid’s reply.

 

***

 

“Will you tell me about New York?” he asks once, when they’re curled around each other naked.  Olivia’s decided to hell with it.  She’s set things on fire, moved objects with her mind, caught bullets, performed every feat the Observers are capable of and if they interrupt her naked time _now_ , Olivia will eviscerate them with their own knife.  Fighting in the nude after all of that, she thinks, would be a cinch.

She shifts closer to him, languid, and considers 2015.  There were people Olivia worked with – _good people_ – in the first days of the invasion, when Walter sent her away from Harvard and Peter vanished, they were her only backup.  Olivia thinks about Lal Singh and Jess Harper, and it’s been twenty-one years but it's too soon.  Her heart still aches.  “You never did tell me how you got around the country.”  Olivia counters. She rolls over, nestles her head under his chin, and feels his arm creep around her shoulder reassuringly. 

“A wild land fire-man,” he says nonsensically, into her hair.

All the major roads were sealed, major airports and railways ground to a complete halt.  Any person found on the streets after six pm was summarily executed.  In 2015, the purges raged non-stop.  In some ways, it was more dangerous than now.  The Observer’s wouldn’t relax their grip until _many_ years in the future.  Olivia can’t help but snigger, she rubs her nose against his chest and muses.  “Somehow, I always thought you made that one up.”

“A cargo pilot, too, I didn’t make it up, although I might have fudged the record on how many hours I’d logged in the air.”

Olivia blinks, adds those two random points together then shakes her head.  “You knew the hangar-bays for the Department of Forestry and Fire.”

“I’ll tell you about it one day,” he says softly.  “If you want to know.”

Olivia’s hand flexes around the bullet.  “I do.”  But not now.  She’s not interested in talking now. She straddles Peter, knees pressed against his flanks.  Olivia hasn’t thought about sex – or wanted sex – for the longest time. On her ladder of priorities it was the bottom rung, except now, she can’t stop thinking about it - a low drive for pleasure, needing some form of relief.   Connection sparking like synapses between them, making her spine arch, making her restless.

“I love you,” he says from below.  “Olivia – “  She kisses him silent, skims her hips back until she can feel his erection pressing against her buttocks.  His fingers tighten in the sheets, Peter’s mouth is warm, familiar; his eyes are dark.  “I can’t – ”

“Sssh.”  Olivia covers the 9mm with her hand.  “Not yet.” He shivers, naked desire mixed with fear, memory of loss roiling between them.  “It’s not about that,” Olivia promises.  She presses the condom into his hand, touches her forehead to his own and whispers.  “It’s not about that yet.” 

He takes it.  He makes quick work of the foil packet.  Peter kisses her, open mouthed, tenderly, his lips pressed lightly against hers.  When he’s ready, Olivia sinks down, a painful stretch, hips stuttering until she’s flush with his groin.  She balances with one hand planted on his stomach, knees gathered under her and waits.  Peter shifts, presses upward then resides, giving Olivia time to adjust.  “I only want _you_ ,” he says, barely audible, then firmly.  “You’re the only thing I want.”

Olivia considers the Parabellum, the dull glint of the twice-fired metal, then slowly unknots the tie.  She puts the necklace aside, within both of their reach, and doesn’t answer.  She moves her pelvis, drags upward, tortuously slow, thighs working. Peter curls inward as if chasing her warmth, as if the sudden loss was inexplicable, unwanted.  Olivia places more weight on his abdomen, forces him flat, and sinks downward in a rush, toes curling as she sets her rhythm.  He meets her, he counters every movement.  There’s an exhibitionist in Olivia – a wild abandon gilded with joy – only glimpsed when in bed.  She’s not coy.  Olivia’s nothing but forthright, prone to laughter or moments of ridiculousness.  She knows what she wants, and has never been afraid of reaching for it.  Olivia sets her pace to keep them _both_ on edge, until he surges upward, one hand under her buttocks to keep her in place, and flips them both over. 

They bounce unceremoniously.  She laughs, breathless.  Peter hooks one thigh over his shoulder to open her, sink that much deeper inside, body aligned off-centre, and presses the pad of his thumb against her clit.  She seizes, unexpected: head thrown back as she tightens around him.  He rocks through her orgasm, unhurried, his eyes fixed on her expression.  Peter kisses her throat, brow, eyelids.  “Whatever you want,” he vows.  “Olivia  -  I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I know.” 

She tangles one hand in his sweaty hair, covers the scar on his nape.  Peter breathes ragged as he moves.   He comes with a low sound, head buried against her neck, with his eyes wide open.  Neither of them are ready for anything more - not here, not now, maybe not for years - but Olivia won’t dismiss the possibility, won’t rule it out entirely.   “We’ll beat them,” she says instead, and feels Peter’s nod, his affirmation against her collarbone.


End file.
